Sex And Other Shiny Objects

by Blakely, Lauren

  Research.

  That’s all.

  But when I reach her apartment and she opens the door, all those reminders run, hop, skip, and jump away.

  And it’s not because of how she looks, though she’s so damn pretty in a light-blue dress.

  It’s what she says.

  “Listen to this voicemail a customer left for me.” In one smooth move, she grabs my arm, tugs me inside, and hits play on her phone as the door closes.

  Hi Peyton,

  It’s Sandra here! Just wanted to leave a little message! I stopped by your store the other day and picked up some new pj’s. Ah, how I love my satin jammies—they’re the perfect way to end the day. You were so helpful, aiding me in selecting just the right set. You remind me of Mimi. She always had time for every customer, talking to them, getting to know them. She’d be so proud of you, carrying on her legacy. And I know she’d be proud of your blog too. I can see where you get your spirit from!

  P.S. You should stock knee pads for staircase use! It makes it so much more enjoyable! Helps with rug burn too!

  See you soon!

  Peyton sighs happily, brings her hand to her chest, then smiles. “Is it weird that I’m happy that she thinks my Mimi would be proud of me for selling undies well?”

  I smile, shaking my head, my heart warming at how radiant she is over a message like this. The simplest things make her shine. “No. You have a connection with your grandmother. And you don’t just do what you do to make a sale. You do it because it makes your customers feel better about themselves. You make them happy.”

  She points at me, doing a dance with her fingers. “See? You get my love of underwear.”

  Does she have any idea how much? “Yeah, I think I do.”

  “Also, you look . . .” She stops, and her eyes travel up and down my frame. “You look great.”

  The way she says it, it’s as if she’s stripped bare for me, like her voice holds the raw truth of her heart.

  Three simple words. You look great.

  They burrow into me, reminding me this is so much more than an experiment.

  That’s the big problem.

  I hold up the bag I picked up on the way, needing to get out of the line of lust-fire. “I stopped at a store. The first crop of clementines are in. Did you know you can sometimes peel one in a single go?” I ask, making small talk as I cross the few feet into her kitchen.

  “Yes. I love it when that happens. It’s sort of like the satisfaction you get when you perfectly flip an egg or a pancake.”

  “Exactly. Want to try?”

  She’s right behind me in the kitchen, so close I can smell her body lotion. It’s cherry blossom, and I’m going to need another coat of armor. Maybe there’s a spare under the sink? In the hall closet?

  Or possibly I can find it in the clementine trick. Yes, I’m sure my kitchen skills will solve this escape-room clue. Worth trying, at least.

  “Not this second, because I have something for you,” she says, waylaying my plan, and I spin around, surprised.

  She’s holding a gift bag with a silver bow tied around the handles. Because of course she is. Because that’s what she does.

  My heart dares to thump harder, and I have got to get it under control. I take the bag, untie the bow, and peer inside.

  I smile when I see what she’s gotten. “Forest green,” I say, running my finger over the soft fabric.

  “Take it out. Hold it up.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Yes,” she says, stomping her foot.

  “Fine, fine.” I tug the shirt from the bag, pretending to model it.

  She nods approvingly. “Very you. Now you’re all set for homecoming. And the clementines will go perfectly with my drink choice for tonight.”

  As I fold the shirt, I ask what’s on tap.

  She swivels around, grabs a bottle of tequila, and waggles it. “Shots.”

  Sounds like a good idea. Shots equal more armor.

  She lines up two glasses, and I peel a clementine, all in one neat piece.

  She whistles her appreciation as she pours the drinks, and we lift our glasses.

  “What are we toasting to?” I ask, some ancient part of me hoping she’ll say, To us.

  She licks her lips, takes a breath, and seems to pause on the words. Then, with a rise of her chin, she declares, “To red lingerie and friendship.”

  That less-than-subtle hint is all I need to know.

  Besides, it’s precisely what I should drink to.

  I down the tequila in two seconds, the fiery burn a stark and necessary reminder of reality.

  I pour another shot and swallow it whole, then I grab a slice of clementine.

  She finishes her drink, takes the fruit, and sets her phone in its stand. “I made a playlist. Mood music.”

  I hope it’s not Chris Isaak again. I’m not sure my heart can handle that. “Metal music would be perfect,” I say, dead serious.

  With a roll of her eyes, she laughs and says she’ll be right back.

  As she leaves, Aerosmith’s “I Don’t Want to Miss A Thing” begins.

  Well, that’s not exactly Ozzy Osbourne.

  Shoving my hand through my hair, I repeat her words while she’s gone.

  Lingerie and friendship.

  That’s what this is. That’s what it should be. That’s all she wants.

  Now I know. Whatever I’ve been feeling these last few nights is one-sided. Like it’s always been.

  And it’s time for this unrequited shit to end.

  After her five scenes end in a few more days, I’m going to have to mix a drink that’ll make me forget I ever had any feelings for her.

  But I can’t forget tonight.

  Because when she returns a few minutes later, all the air rushes out of my lungs.

  I can’t think. I can’t speak. I am on fire, burning alive.

  Peyton, the woman I fell in love with ten years ago, wears a black satin robe that ends at her thighs.

  Black heels raise her up a few inches.

  And the lace of her bra strap peeks out on one side.

  “I wore the red for you,” she says, so softly, so faintly I’m not quite sure I heard her right.

  I don’t even know if it’s a line from the novel. It doesn’t feel familiar, but hell if I know anything anymore.

  I laser in on the task, my slim-to-nil chance of beating the ticking clock.

  “Do you want me to say the lines?” I ask as calmly as I can, but even so, the words come out like smoke.

  “Yes.” Hers sound like an invitation.

  Lingerie and friendship.

  I repeat it as I walk over to where she stands, poised against the wall.

  “Did you wear this for me?” I fiddle with the satin ribbon at her waist, like the hero does.

  “Just for you,” she whispers.

  Taking a deep breath, I untie the sash, the two sides of her robe falling open.

  I shut my eyes briefly. I have to. She’s so fucking beautiful.

  When I open them, I half wish she’d changed into sweatpants. But she’s the woman in red lace, with a bra that boosts her breasts, panties that should be worshipped, and a soft, supple body I want to have against mine.

  I glance at the panties, noticing the lines for the tiny second-layer thong underneath. Shame. “These are pretty,” I say, raising a brow, like the hero does. “Too bad they won’t be on for long.”

  “Take them off,” she murmurs, and her voice sounds different. Hotter, more sensual.

  It’s a trick. It’s a tease. It’s magic, that’s all.

  Don’t be fooled.

  I say what the hero says. “You know my favorite way to remove them.”

  A smile seems to tug at her lips. “That’s what I want.”

  I kneel before her, and this—this is where I earn my Oscar for resistance. I’d like to thank the Academy.

  Because, seriously? How the hell am I supposed to rip these off with my teeth without touch
ing her? Would have been helpful for the hero to leave a step-by-step guide. Maybe a wiki or a how-to video.

  Oh wait. He got to touch the heroine.

  Lucky fucker.

  I give it my best shot, dipping my face toward her, keenly aware of how ridiculous this is—I’m about to tear off her underwear for the sake of a blog.

  Then walk away.

  Must make light of this.

  I glance up at Peyton and chomp my teeth, pretending I’m an animal about to devour its dinner.

  But she doesn’t laugh. The expression on her face is not one of amusement.

  It’s something else entirely.

  Something I don’t want to name.

  With my arms at my sides, I bite at the top of her panties near her hip, and then briefly wonder what the hell to do with my hands.

  “Put your hands on my ass,” she says, like she can read my mind, or maybe my body language.

  “It’ll be easier that way,” she adds.

  “Right, easier,” I murmur around the panties in my mouth, then slide my hands around her body, cupping her cheeks.

  Holy fuck. She feels spectacular. Soft and smooth and so damn close.

  Too close.

  I’m losing my mind like this. I need to get out of this trap of desire, but it’s a force of its own, shrouding me.

  I try again, tugging at the lace, and she trembles the slightest bit. I hear a tiny hitch of her breath, testing my resolve.

  I need to just get this over with and leave.

  I draw a deep breath, ready to yank with everything I have, but I freeze when I feel her touch my hair.

  That’s not in the script.

  The way she threads her hands through my hair like a lover—that’s not in the scene at all.

  I let myself give a name to the way she looked at me moments ago.

  She looked at me with arousal.

  Now she’s touching me the same way too.

  20

  Peyton

  There are reasons to resist crossing the line.

  So many reasons.

  And then there is this.

  My best friend, on his knees, about to reenact an intimate scene.

  Maybe I’ll regret my actions in the morning.

  Maybe I’ll regret them in a few minutes.

  But right now? With my playlist shifting to Janelle Monae and him looking at me with you’re-so-beautiful in his eyes, I can’t regret this feeling.

  This wish.

  This wild, powerful, almost painful desire.

  I have to know what it’s like to be touched by someone I trust. How it feels to be cherished.

  And I know, without a doubt, he’ll touch me that way.

  I know, too, that I want Tristan desperately.

  Maybe more than the woman in the book wants her man.

  In this moment, I’m made entirely of emotion. Of desire. My skin tingles, and my body is awash with heat.

  My heart stutters, longing for him.

  I can’t just playact this scene.

  Or perhaps I simply don’t want to.

  I run my fingers through his hair, savoring the soft feel of his thick, dark strands.

  “I wore the red for you,” I say, repeating my words from earlier. My words. They’re not in the scene. They’re only mine, and they’re wholly true. “I know you love red.”

  He stares up at me with so much intensity in his hazel eyes, so much desire. It’s terrifying the way he looks at me. And wonderful too.

  “I do. Love it so much,” he says, his voice low and husky.

  I shudder from the sheer magnitude of this moment. From the reality of what I’m about to do.

  Jump.

  “I know,” I whisper, then I thread my fingers through his hair, curling them around his head, loving the feel of him. I guide him to my thigh, directing him.

  He lets out a shuddery breath, then presses a ghost of a kiss on my bare leg.

  I gasp.

  The feel of his lips is extraordinary. The touch of his hands is utterly erotic. He shifts from cupping my ass cheeks to squeezing and kneading, bringing me closer.

  And, like that, we cross the line of friendship.

  We vault over it as he kisses my thigh, my hip, and moves up my belly. His lips travel across my skin, turning me liquid, transforming me into a molten woman.

  He reaches my breasts, kissing the swell of one, then the other. When he arrives at my neck, his hands are on my waist, and his lips caress the hollow of my throat.

  I shudder, murmuring, gasping all at once.

  I’m in another realm, where passion rules the night and choices narrow to one—the choice is touch.

  He kisses my neck, my jaw, the shell of my ear, his trim beard rasping deliciously across my skin. Then he stops, plants his palms on the wall behind me, and meets my eyes. I’ve never seen someone look at me the way he does. The intensity, the desire is almost too much.

  “Kiss me,” I whisper, desperation coloring my tone.

  “I want to kiss you all night long,” he says. Then his lips meet mine, and I am lost—completely lost in the sensation.

  In the brush of his lips, the feel of his body, the power of his kiss.

  He’s not soft or gentle. He’s all man, all hunger, and he kisses me like I’m the most succulent dish he’s ever tasted. He seals his mouth to mine like he owns me, like he already knows the taste of me.

  Like he wants me with a wild desperation.

  Looping my hands into his hair again, I thread my fingers through the strands, playing with the ends.

  He sighs against my mouth, his body trembling, and I smile inside, knowing he likes how I touch him.

  I want him to. I want him to like everything I do. To feel everything I feel. Lowering his right hand, he cups my jaw, brushing his thumb over my chin as he kisses me.

  Somehow this takes the kiss even higher, makes it even hotter. It’s like he’s talking with his hands, saying how much he needs me.

  I need him just as much.

  But I need more than kissing.

  So much more.

  I break the kiss, grinning as I reach for his hand. He’s quiet, letting me lead. I swallow roughly, then guide his hand down my body. He shudders as I go, and we blaze a trail down my breasts and over my belly. When we reach the top of my panties, he takes over, sliding his hand between my legs.

  “Oh hell,” he groans, his eyes squeezing shut as he feels my wetness through the lace, and the little thong too.

  His fingers trace lines over me, then he seems to collect himself, issuing a command. “Turn around.”

  “Against the wall?”

  “Yes.”

  I do as I’m told, thrilling at the confidence in his voice, the dirty need.

  I turn, and as I go, I slide off the robe so I’m only in my red lace.

  “God, yes. You’re so fucking incredible,” he says, then presses his big body against my back.

  I gasp when I feel the outline of his erection, thick and insistent.

  He slides my hands up the wall, above my head, holding them there with one hand. Then his other arm glides around my body, over my waist and down, his fingers dipping inside my panties, touching me while his lips press against my neck again.

  Twin sensations—his fingers gliding between my legs, his lips traveling across my neck.

  I moan and writhe, wriggling against his hands, arching into his lips.

  He plays with me, rubbing and touching me where I need him most, winding me up, driving me wild.

  “You feel spectacular,” he growls, and I do feel that way—because of him. Because of how he touches me. “You’re so fucking soft. So wet.”

  I can’t even answer. I don’t know what to say. All I can say is “Yes” as he strokes and thrusts and sends me toward the edge.

  His hungry mouth consumes me, kissing my neck fiercely, reverently, as he fucks me with his fingers.

  All these sensations collide in a tightening in my belly, an ex
quisite tension in my legs. Then I break, gasping and crying.

  “Oh God, oh God, yes. Oh my God.”

  I fall apart with him, regretting nothing. Only wanting more.

  When I come down from the high, I turn around, my legs like jelly, my brain high on dopamine. I clasp his cheek. “Will you please take me to bed now?”

  His grin is wicked, and I don’t ever want to forget the way he’s looking at me right this second. “I will.”

  It sounds like the answer to a prayer.

  21

  Peyton

  I don’t know if this is a vivid dream or heightened reality.

  Reality has never felt as blissful, as unexpected, as it does when I stand in front of my king-size bed as Tristan lifts a hand to my chest, his fingers featherlight as he flicks open the front clasp on my bra.

  I release a shuddering breath.

  I’m getting naked for my friend.

  He’s stripping me down to nothing.

  I want this so badly, and I’m terrified at the same time.

  What does this mean? Where do we go from here?

  But I need what’s next.

  Need it more than chocolate and lace.

  When my bra falls open, my breasts revealed to him, a gust of breath rushes from his lips.

  “You’re so stunning,” he whispers, his voice rough as gravel and yet dusted in honey at the same damn time. Like he can’t believe he’s looking at me like this.

  But I feel the same about him.

  I can’t quite fathom that this strong, gorgeous man who I desperately wanted years ago is undressing me. For several surreal seconds, I’m sure I’m living a fantasy.

  “I like the way you look at me,” I say, needing to be sure this is real life, and holy hell, that felt good to say.

  He shakes his head, like this is all a dream to him too. He cups my breasts, and we both groan at the same time.

  He fondles them but doesn’t linger long. On a fast track for total nudity, his hands skate down my stomach and slip into my panties. He slides them, and the thong, down my legs, his breath hitching as I’m revealed.

  Shamelessly, he gazes up and down my body as he helps me step out of the lace.

  When he rises, he glides a hand around to my ass, dips his mouth to my neck, and whispers, “Let’s leave your shoes on.”